Pitstop: You feeling up to guests?
I’m almost tempted to say yes. But I’m in so much pain, and I’m angry and feeling so fucking sorry for myself I’m afraid I’d take the bad mood out on her. The disappointment that stews in my stomach at not seeing her today is kind of pathetic.
Maybe I could do with her cheering me up. She’s already seen my face and didn’t run away screaming, so she can clearly stomach the horror. But I still can’t bring myself to let her come over. What if one of the other guys makes a move on her? Or even flirts? The mood I’m in, I’d impale him on a fucking hockey stick.
It’s not a good look when you’re busted for murdering chosen family.
Me: Rain check?
Pitstop: Sure thing. Do you need anything? Is there anything I can do?
Me: Is this your distress signal? Are you under attack by an alien race?
Pitstop: LOL! No. I just know you’re over there feeling sorry for yourself, and that ego of yours is probably preventing rational thought right now.
She’s not wrong. But I also don’t like that she’s right, either.
Me: You can’t mock the infirm, Pitstop. It’s not nice.
Her reply takes a long moment, I almost think she’s truly insulted until the screen flashes with a new message from her.
Pitstop: What about sucking off the infirm?
I blink like the words on the screen don’t mean what I think they mean. Is she actually propositioning me right now? Can’t be the meds, I haven’t taken them yet.
Me: You offering me a blowjob, Pitstop?
Please say yes. Please say yes.
Pitstop: What if I am?
Me: Well. I’d wonder if you’re planning to bite off my cock to distract me from the pain in my face.
Pitstop: Not gonna lie, the thought crossed my mind.
It’s hard not to laugh when she’s just so freakin’ sassy.
Me: You’re making it really hard to say no. But I’m exhausted, in agony, and I’d really rather not fall into a medically induced sleep with my cock in your mouth. You’d definitely dismember my member then.
Pitstop: That’s correct. Plus, you’d give me a complex.
Me: Fair. Do you have any books in arm’s reach?
Pitstop: I have Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief.
Me: I love that series. Any chance you want to read me a bedtime story?
Part of me expects her to laugh, or make fun of me, but her name flashes on my screen as she calls me, and another sliver of the bitterness in my heart gets chipped away.
“Alright, Satan.”
I’ve barely answered the phone, and she’s already talking.
“Settle in. If you haven’t taken your meds, do that. If you have, lie back, close your eyes, and let me tell you a story. Okay?”
I love it when she’s bossy.
A grunt is the only answer I give her. I pause to take my meds, cautiously sip some water to get the taste out of my mouth.
